


Signs

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, Future, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-23
Updated: 2004-04-17
Packaged: 2018-12-27 12:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12081165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Maybe there are no coincidences. Based loosely off of â€œSignsâ€� and inspired by â€œAlien,â€� written by Josselin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Morning.

Light drifts in through the window in harsh, butter-yellow streaks. Brian still hasn’t put up the new maroon drapes. He told Justin they didn’t match and there were more important things to fix before the ugly drapes, like the carpets and the heating system. Brian fuzzily wishes he had put up the drapes on mornings like now though. Mornings when the sun beats a ruthless path on that side of the house.

He sits up, looks around his sparse bedroom. All is quiet. He brushes sleep from his eyes and yawns, checking the clock. 7:23 in the A.M. Justin must be downstairs making breakfast. Justin is good with things like that. Brian can always count on him for domestic comforts.

Brian slips out of bed, pads to the closet for his robe, and then heads towards the bathroom door. He opens it with one hand, pushes hair back from his face with the other. Brian has let it grow a bit longer since it happened. No money to get it cut. No impetus either.

He brushes his teeth with the sink running, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He spits suds of toothpaste into the basin and reaches for a towel. It’s freezing in the house without heat, even with the strong sunlight outside.

Headed downstairs he nearly trips on a toy fire truck in the hallway outside of Gus’ room but hops around it in time, the benefit of long legs. He doesn’t even scowl when the heel of his hand pushes the door of Gus’ room open. The door creaks. Brian eyes the mess inside, the unmade bed and the clothes hamper with dirty jeans dangled off the side, the papers and coloring books. No Gus.

He backs out of Gus’ room and starts down the stairs. Gus’ hollowed scream reaches him five steps from the bottom, and Brian stills there, tense.

Justin lurches awake, blinking and dry-mouthed. He kicks the quilt off of his legs and bounds up off the couch, panic overriding his otherwise sleepy reflexes. Bewildered, his eyes drift to the foyer and his feet follow, making soft smacks against the hardwood. He stops at the stairs and wraps his fingers around the banister. “Brian?”

Brian’s still clay-footed on the stairwell. He does not look at Justin. “Where’s Gus?”

“Umm.” Justin looks around but senses the house is empty save for the two of them. “Outside, maybe?”

Brian takes the rest of the steps and half-runs to front door. Justin scurries after him and stops at the coat rack to don a jacket, face scrunched in worry as he watches Brian run out into the yard. The ground is covered with frost, and Brian is barefoot in a robe and boxers.

It’s smoky outside. The sky is hazed with billowing clouds of it, and the sound of crackling fills the air. Justin coughs and jogs after Brian with his hand over his mouth and nose. He does not call out.

“Oh, shit.” He can see glowing red up near the orchards, maybe a mile away. Brian’s stopped fifty paces or so up ahead, Justin sprints up to him and wraps an arm around his lean waist. “He’s a smart kid, he knows better than to head into a fire.” Brian does not say a word. Justin presses his mouth to the tick at the dip of Brian’s clenched jaw and throat. “I can get the car and go after him?”

Still no answer. Justin fights back gnawing worry, glances sidelong at Brian’s stony expression and makes the decision to just do it himself. “I’ll find him,” he calls back over his shoulder, then coughs from the effort of running.

Brian waits until he hears the front door slam. His eyes sting from the smoke and the tacit clock ticking away until the moment when he will know if his son will live or die. He does not know what to do until then, so he runs. He doesn’t feel the rocky soil or numbing frost under his feet.

The sound of wood cracking and Brian’s panting breath fill the air. Distantly there is the hum of an engine roaring to life.

For Brian, all is quiet.


	2. Signs

“Gus? Gus?” Brian’s throat is sore from the smoke and the screaming. He cuts the pad of his foot open on a fallen branch but keeps running. He’s gonna kill Gus if the kid isn’t dead already.

Justin’s beat-up little Toyota rattles along, crushing dirt under its wheels until it catches up with Brian and coasts alongside him as he jogs. Brian hears the window being rolled down when it groans in protest. “Brian? Get in. We’ll find him. Come on and get in now.” Brian ignores him and keeps moving. Justin’s tone turns wheedling and desperate. “Brian, don’t be stupid.”

He looks up sharply from the glow of orange/red he had previously been trained on and then over at Justin, who’s practically hanging out of the window. “Don’t be stupid?”

“Get in.”

Justin’s softer. Brian notices red eyes and a crumpled tissue clenched in Justin’s shaking right hand. His shoulders slump. He stops walking, wants to put his head between his knees when he does. “We’re not going to find him.” It is amazing he gets the words out through his labored panting.

“We are going to find him. Get in.”

Brian crosses around the front of the truck and opens the passenger door. The old, ripped leather is cool against his thighs even through the robe. He sits back heavily against the seat and closes his eyes. Justin puts the truck in gear and rocks start crunching under the tires again.

“I called 911 at the house. Dispatch said there are already trucks here. It’s, like, a wonder the sirens didn’t wake us.”

Brian opens his eyes and blearily stares down at his hands. Justin keeps prattling on about where Gus could be and how they’re going to find him, no harm done. He doesn’t even nod, knows he’s worrying the fuck out of Justin but doesn’t care. Eventually as they draw closer the flames nab Brian’s attention, and he stares out the windshield in abject horror.

“Christ. That’s all of the orchards. I bet our neighbors are going to be so pissed.”

Brian doesn’t give a shit about the neighbors. “It’s not all of the orchards.” His eyes catch a whole patch of trees just beyond the blaze, and even a few on the outskirts. “Looks like the fire is spread out.” Or just in one central area.

Please let Gus be alive.

Brian does mental calculations about coffin sizes as Justin steers the truck out of the grassland and onto the road. The rolling red lights of fire engines hone them into relative safety. Justin parks next to one and shuts off the engine. Brian is out of the car before Justin’s seatbelt is off.

Between strapping, bulky firemen there is a tiny, pajama-clad figure. The teddy bear it is clutching seals the deal. Justin nearly cries when he sees Brian’s body forcibly heave with relief. “Gus!” Gus looks up at his father’s shout and waits patiently for Brian to reach him, which is strange.

“Daddy.” He’s smiling, and Brian wraps his arms around him and drags Gus so close that the boy is probably choking on Brian’s robe.

“Why the… why the fuck did you do that?” Brian has absolutely no qualms about swearing in front of his child. Luckily Gus seems to have been born moral, which makes for a nice change in the Kinney line. Brian kisses the top of Gus’ head, then shakes him so hard Justin winces. “Oh Christ. Are you hurt?”

“I think God did it.”

A beat. Justin can see Brian’s face over Gus’ shoulder and it’s a mottled red. “Did what?” Brian asks slowly, and Justin wonders if he’s pissed like he always is when God is mentioned, but his hands are shaking as he gently brushes grit off Gus’ cheeks.

Gus smiles benignly at his father and points at the fire. Brian gives a slow start, almost a double take, and follows the direction of his son’s pointing finger. He watches the firemen with their long, violently streaming hoses and beyond to the burning trees. Brian squints when something about the picture strikes him as being not quite right.

Gus wanders away from his father and comes to take Justin’s hand. Justin looks down at the child and squeezes the little fist wrapped inside his own. He has to move the wadded tissue so Gus can hold onto him, and it falls to the ground unnoticed.

Brian has stood, and he’s got the attention of a sweaty, middle-aged fireman. He asks something Justin can’t hear and the guy nods, points out the path of the still-burning fire. Brian nods in turn and starts back towards Justin and Gus. The fireman follows Brian for a few steps and says, “the news station said that this is the twelfth one this hour.”


	3. Signs

Brian holds Gus so tightly on his lap that the usually attention-starved little boy squirms and kicks the whole ride back. Justin would be annoyed but Brian looks so desperate in the seat beside him, eyes bloodshot and chin resting protectively atop Gus’ head.

Justin flips on the news station. By the time they get back to the house there have been fifteen fires reported across the US and Canada so far, and not one of them has spread or has been at all put out.

Brian says nothing about this fucking bizarre circumstance. Justin suspects that he already knew; that it’s the reason he went and talked with the fireman.

They park. Brian opens the door and lifts Gus off of his lap and onto the ground, but doesn’t cease bodily-contact with his son even as he himself gets out and walks towards the house. He steers Gus in front of him, one hand on the boy’s shoulder and the other splayed flat across his chest. It’s a wonder they can move tangled up like that, but it’s seamlessly coordinated. Almost like watching a ballet. Justin stays back to look at them until they’ve gone inside and finally follows them in a moment later.

After he hangs up his jacket Justin makes his way into the kitchen. Gus is sitting at the table pouring himself a bowl of Golden Grahams and Brian is leaning against the counter, the cordless phone tucked between his shoulder and ear.

“Yeah, well, normally I wouldn’t give a flying fuck, but my five-year-old kid could have died and my boyfriend’s fucking allergies are shot to goddamn hell. So yeah. I care.”

Despite himself and his fucked-up morning, Justin smiles. He ruffles Gus’ hair on his way to the fridge for some bottled water so he can take his allergy medicine.

“Well, fuck, I don’t know! Were you with the little inbred piece of shit at every single moment from midnight to right fucking now, Norman? Or was he out with his punk friends setting fire to goddamn apple orchards and God knows what else? Jesus.”

Justin shakes his head, bemused. He tosses back three of the little capsules and swallows them down with the water. Gus is staring at his father, entirely too fascinated by the conversation, so Justin catches his eye and winks. “Your dad is, like, so old, isn’t he? ‘Kids these days! Why, when I was that age we didn’t have TV! We had to play with sticks! In the DIRT!’” Gus giggles, and Brian shoots him a death glare.

Brian is silent for a few moments as Norman from six houses over bleats into his ear. He rolls his eyes and generally makes dramatic, exasperated gestures the entire time; he slaps the counter, taps his foot, and checks the clock on the wall next to the fridge until it’s his turn to rant again.

“I don’t give a shit if your worthless progeny is on motherfucking probation, Norman! He’s the one who lit the goddamn orchard on fire, and I want you to… belt the fucker until he can’t sit for a week, or feed him to the cows, or do whatever the hell it is that you farmers do when one of your youngins goes the way of sin. CHRIST.” Brian screams the last of his tirade directly into the mouthpiece in true Brian Kinney fashion. He looks angry enough to throw the phone against the wall, but they don’t have money to buy a new one so he just hits the ‘end call’ button really hard.

“That went well,” Justin murmurs, turning on the stove so he can make breakfast for the two of them.

“Norman Reed’s worthless kid did it, Justin. He and his little deviant friends have done nothing but cause shit. This is just another one of their stupid pranks.”

Justin nods. “Whatever you say.” Gus giggles again.

Brian glares at them both.


	4. Signs

Justin has just finished toasting their wheat bread when the doorbell rings. Brian’s head jerks up suspiciously at the sound, and all three of them look at each other across the table for a long moment until it rings again and Brian pushes back his chair. “I’ll get it, no need for you guys to trip over yourselves in haste.”

Justin butters a piece of bread for Brian and sticks it on his plate.

Brian answers the door, and Justin can hear that it’s Officer Thomas. Brian says something in a clipped, defensive tone, but the door closes and Thomas’ booming voice can be heard even in the kitchen.

“Dispatch had an interesting call from Norman Reed, Brian.” Brian’s called the cops so many times on Reed’s ‘little bitch of a son’ John that everyone at the station knows the entire Kinney household by their first names. “He claims you threatened his son.”

Brian snorts. He lets Thomas into the kitchen and goes about pouring himself some more coffee. “I didn’t threaten the little prick. I merely pointed out to Norman that his darling, lawbreaking child had started the fire up in Trisha’s orchards. The one Gus could have been killed in.”

Office Thomas takes off his hat and puts it on Gus’ head, smiling down at him. Brian only lifts an eyebrow. “Well, you see, Brian. I went up and saw the fire, up in old Trisha Kingly’s orchards, and then I visited Norman at his father’s house, and it seems to me that the boy couldn’t have started it.”

Brian chokes on the sip of his coffee. Justin hands him a napkin. “What?” Brian laughs, dabbing at the shoulder of his robe where some coffee had splattered. “You’re shitting me, right?”

Thomas shakes his head. “I wish I was. It’d be a lot easier to haul Johnny and the rest of his pack down to the station for questioning, maybe rough ‘em up a little, stick ‘em in a holding cell over night till I got some answers, but…” He shakes his head again, only this time he looks downright perturbed. “It wouldn’t do any good.”

“I see.” Brian sits back from his plate and stares at Thomas levelly. They’d known each other for about a year now, and he knows that Thomas isn’t bullshitting, but that doesn’t convince him that the man isn’t just fucking stupid. “And why wouldn’t it? Do any good, I mean?” He props his elbow on the table and rests his chin in the crook of his curved palm.

“Way I see it, those fires that’ve been going around? The ones all the way up in Canada, too? Now, I may not be a scientist, but I don’t figure that Johnny Reed could’ve flown to seven different states, then up into Canada all in one night AND made it home in time to have breakfast.”

Brian scowls. “In the face of your crippling logic, I’m not sure what to say. Only… maybe Johnny heard about the fires on the radio like everyone else in this goddamn town and decided to start a blaze of his own?”

Thomas wedges a thumb underneath his belt and pulls at the leather for a long moment. “You suggesting Johnny started a… copycat fire?”

“Yes, Charles. That’s exactly what I’m suggesting he did. You wanna go back to Reed’s place and put the kid in cuffs now?”

Thomas purses his lips. “Dunno, Brian. I mean, I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I can’t go and make arrests on cir-cum-stan-tol evidence; you know that as well as I do.” Brian did. At least half of his calls led to Johnny getting off scot-free, Officer Thomas said they were ‘unfounded.’ “But that’s not all I’m thinking about here. Those fires… that’s a goddamn freak show if I’ve ever seen one. Like something you’d see in a movie.”

“Really.” Brian looks over at Officer Thomas blankly, but Justin can see the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Lotta weird stuff going on in the world today, Brian. Some say it’s the devil’s work. I dunno about that, but I’m sure as hell not to discount what smarter men than me have thought up.”

“Mhm.” Brian pointedly takes a bite of his toast and washes it down with a leisurely sip of his coffee.

“I guess I’ll be on my way now. There’s been some strange reports about animals acting up. Bobby, Mabel’s boy? His dog just went wild for no reason and about tore his arm off.” He smiles grimly. “What is the world coming to, yes indeed?” Without another word he plucks his hat off of Gus’ head and puts it back on. He nods at Justin and is on his way towards the door.

“Don’t say a word,” Brian warns, when the sound of the front door slamming shut fills the silence. “Not a damn word.”


	5. Signs

That night Justin doesn’t fall asleep on the couch like he did the night before, but rather drops off to sleep tucked under Brian’s protective arm. Brian stares down at what he can see of Justin that’s lit by faint moonlight, and he idly runs his fingers through Justin’s hair. 

Justin has only cut his hair once since Lindsay died, right after the funeral, in some ham-handed attempt to get everyone thinking that everything was normal, or maybe going to be normal; that things were well on the way to being a-okay. He stood at their new bathroom sink wearing the last pair of silk boxers that Brian owned and an absurdly concerted expression, scissors snipping away at his bangs, then at the rest of the disheveled blond mess he calls hair. Brian said nothing, but he stopped tugging at Justin’s hair during sex, and Justin hasn’t cut it since.

Brian’s inches away from the oblivion of sleep when he thinks he sees something pass in front of the window, obscuring the moonlight with solid darkness lightening-quick. He shifts, moving his legs underneath the thick blankets restlessly, and Justin groans but doesn’t stir. Brian doesn’t breathe for a few moments, brain whirling a million miles a second.

There’s someone out there, he knows, although he doesn’t know how or why. He knows it like he knew he should have gone home on time that night, instead of staying late at Deb’s. He fucking knows, and he trembles with the weight of knowing.

It’s unnaturally quiet. Even Justin’s usually semi-loud sleeping breathing pattern has trailed off into virtual silence. Brian feels like he’s deaf, or worse, dead. Living with the dead. He kicks the covers off and shakes Justin awake.

“What’s the matter?” Justin murmurs sleepily, wrapping his arms around Brian’s vacated pillow and pressing his face into it. 

“Dunno,” Brian whispers back, even if he has an inkling that it’s someone, probably that goddamn Johnny Reed. There’s also no need to whisper, even if Gus is just down the hall. They have had sex under less assured conditions. “Think someone might be out there. Might be trying to break in.”

Justin looks up from the pillow at that, eyes wide. “Shit, really?” He clumsily starts to climb out of bed, pushing the covers back and staring down at his slumber-limp body as if he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

Brian shuffles over to where he keeps his slippers and puts them on, thinking. The gun he usually keeps downstairs in the back closet he had to put in a deposit box downtown; Gus is at the inquisitive year when nothing is off-limits, even if it’s under lock and key. 

The only thing he can think of to protect the three of them is the baseball bat Brian keeps near the back door, just in case. However, he realizes that he can’t do shit to protect them all if the prowler has a gun to his head. Jack used to boast that he could ‘take care’ of anyone who dared to break in with his two bare hands, and Brian used look off and roll his eyes or snort into his macaroni if Jack was drunk enough not to notice. 

Right now, Brian feels a lot like his father, and he decides to take his chances with the bat. Even if Justin still gets shivers when he sees one.

They make their way downstairs. With each step Brian is even surer that it’s Reed or Reed’s father or one of Reed’s punkass friends trying to be funny, and he’s absolutely furious. 

“Goddamn Johnny Reed,” Brian hisses through clenched teeth. “Goddamn motherfucker.”

Justin’s hand creeps up to rest on Brian’s shoulder. “You sure it’s John Reed? Oh, Christ. This is so…” he trails off and Brian moves away, out from under Justin’s unintentional restraint.

“I’m going to go outside and bash that motherfucker’s brains in.” If Brian was thinking clearly he wouldn’t have said that.

“That’s not…” Justin’s voice is faintly wobbly, but Brian can’t hear the minor niceties through the blood rushing in his ears. “An intelligent way to deal with the situation. Call the cops?”

Brian has already considered that. The mental image that his mind drew up was one of Officer Charles Thomas standing between a seventeen year old, pimply kid and Brian, wielding a baseball bat. No, he is not calling the cops. “No. Fuck the cops.”

Justin tries again. “Brian, they’re just trying to fuck with us. Let’s just go back to bed and forget about it. Call the cops in the morning, or something. Charles’ll take care of it.” His voice is slipping into the same wheedling tone as yesterday. It grates like nails on a chalkboard to Brian’s ears and causes irritated shivers to rush down his spine.

“We are not calling the fucking cops.”

“Brian, come back to bed. Please. I’m begging you.”

Brian ignores him, or maybe he just isn’t hearing anything but the mantra of rage in his head. “This is what we’re gonna do,” he confides, turning back to spare a cursory glance back at Justin. He eyes glint feverishly in the moonlight, and Justin crosses his arms across his chest and rubs his palms along his biceps at the fear it evokes. Every part of him is screaming against the idea of seeing Brian beating John Reed with a fucking baseball bat. “We’re gonna go outside and run around the house in opposite directions.”

“Brian –”

“We’re gonna fuckin’ chase the bastard until he’s caught between the two of us at the back of the house, all right?”

“W-what?”

“On three.”

“Brian, I can’t do this!”

Brian still isn’t listening. He quietly opens the front door, then the screen, peering out into the darkness. He waits for a beat, and Justin can’t figure why, but a moment later the motion-activated porch light comes on, and Brian holds up three fingers to where Justin can see them.

One. Two. Three. 

Brian moves like Justin’s never seen him move, and before he gives in and starts running too, he knows for sure why Brian was touted as such a goddamn good soccer player. Full scholarship at Carnie-Mellon. It makes sense when he watches Brian’s lithe, almost comically long-legged form disappear around the side of the house.

Justin has taken off running too, but unlike Brian he’s not panting and cursing like he has turrets. He runs around his side of the house and past, only John Reed is nowhere to be found, and Brian’s knocked over their garbage. Justin will have to pick it up in the morning. He stops running when he reaches the front porch, stands next to Brian. “Sonofabitch,” he coughs, wiping sweat from his forehead. He hasn’t been active in what feels like ten years. “Where… where is he?”

Brian will not answer him. Justin isn’t concerned. He stands there in the yard, barefoot and panting and covered with a gross amount of sweat, until Brian grabs Justin’s arm and points at the roof. “He’s up there.”

Justin squints up at the roof and backs up three or four steps when he sees nothing. When he does, it’s only an outline. Tall, lean. Probably not John Reed. Panic fills him, and he glances over at Brian, who is disproportionately pissed. Justin thinks he should be more fucking afraid than angry. Then maybe Justin wouldn’t feel quite so alone.

When Justin looks back up at the roof, the prowler is gone. He and Brian spin around to give chase but there is nothing. Awed, they stare ahead at where the prowler could only have gone. No sign of him, but Gus’ tire swing, dangling from the old oak Brian didn’t have the heart to cut down, is swishing rapidly back and forth on its rope.

It is a windless, moonlit night.


	6. Signs

Justin pours Officer Thomas some coffee.

“So far I have ‘it was very dark.’” He glances up at Brian and Justin, eyebrows raised, pen poised. 

They have been sitting in the kitchen for nearly fifteen minutes, and Brian has said no more than five words, tops. Justin sighs and takes his seat next to Brian, reaching over to grab onto his hand, resting on the tabletop. Justin squeezes. “Yeah, it was.”

“So…” Thomas sits back in his chair and drops the pencil he is holding. It clacks against the wooden table and rolls along, stopping only when it knocks to a sudden halt against Brian’s mug. “It was dark, huh? You couldn’t see anything about ‘em?”

Brian still says nothing. He busies himself with the coffee mug, using his pointer-finger to nudge it by the handle this way then that, and back again until it has revolved 180 degrees. The pencil is jarred into movement again and rolls off the table. Officer Thomas pulls out a pen. Justin frowns. “It really was dark. He was up on our roof.”

“Don’t you think that’s a touch odd?” He is either referring to the prowler being on the roof or Brian and Justin’s inability to see him. Whichever the case, yeah, it is odd. “I don’t know whether I should look for John Reed or a traveling circus performer.” He grins at his little joke.

“It wasn’t John Reed,” Justin says. Brian slants his eyes over to him, pissed off. “Well, it wasn’t! John Reed can’t run like that.”

More silence. Brian clears his throat and shakes Justin’s hand off of him. “He was tall.”

Officer Thomas bends over his dog-eared yellow notepad and scribbles it down. “Yeah? How tall? Taller than you, Brian?”

Brian bites the inside of his cheek. “No.” Justin starts, about to say something. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing.” Justin shakes his head. With swift fingers he pulls the sleeve of his worn grey sweatshirt up to cover his palm. “It was just really dark, that’s all.”

Officer Thomas gives the pair them a beady, questioning once-over. “Over six feet, would you say?”

Justin licks his lips and considers. “It was very dark.”

Brian nods, stretching into a yawn. He moves both arms out with him in the stretch, tilts the chair on its back legs. “It was.” Brian pushes the chair back onto all four legs and throws his arm around Justin’s shoulders at the same time. 

“Yeah, I’ve got that down already.” Justin leans in closer to Brian and they both stare at Thomas with identical blank expressions. Understandably, the officer is a little weirded out. “Uh. Did you see this guy at all, or are you just thinking that they ran up on the roof? I mean, when you couldn’t find them.”

Brian’s breath hisses out irritably from between his gritted teeth. “He ran off before we got a good look at him, all right?” His fingers start drumming restlessly against Justin’s bony shoulder blade. 

“So what you boys are telling me is that an unidentified male - although it could be a female, you don’t know ‘cuz it was dark out – tried to break in and you both ran after him, but he climbed up the roof? Oh, and it was dark so you couldn’t see him or how tall he was. Because it was dark. Very dark.”

Justin’s sort of amused. Aside from being offended, that is. In reality he knows that Officer Thomas is giving Brian all the shit, not him, because Brian kinda deserves it.

“It wasn’t a female,” Brian insists, leaning over the table and jabbing his right index finger into the table for emphasis. “No broad I know can run that fucking fast.”

“Dunno, Brian. I’ve seen some women in the Olympics run pretty fast. Them female Scandinavian track runners, now they are fast. Those girls can run like the wind.”

Justin is unamused, and Brian looks ready to kill Thomas. They are both way too high strung, Justin knows that, but he’s not going to do anything to stop it. Not anymore. “Excluding the possibility that a female Scandinavian runner AND pole-vaulter - you know, so she could jump the ten feet up to the roof – decided to break into our house, what else do you think it could have been?”

Officer Thomas isn’t smiling. “I don’t rightly know, Justin. I really don’t. But until you two can give me something good to go after, I’m just going to head on back to the station and file this, okay?”

All of Justin’s fervor melts as Thomas puts away his notepad and stands up from the table. “Okay, I was out of line with the whole Scandinavian pole-vaulting thing, but you have to understand that this fucker was trying to break in. He could have… killed us. Or kidnapped Gus. Whatever.” He shakes himself at the thought of anything happening to Gus. He can’t think about that. It Justin him physically ill to think about that. “Just… keep an eye out, won’t you?”

Thomas nods slowly. “Sure I will, Justin.” He turns and leaves the kitchen, and Justin follows so he can see him out. 

Officer Thomas is long gone for a minute or two when Gus suddenly appears at Justin’s side. “Guess what?” Gus asks Justin, tugging on his sleeve excitedly. “Officer Thomas said I could have one of those walky-talky radio things they have leftover at the station.”

Justin feels like crying and he doesn’t know why. “That’s great Gus.”

“He said he’d bring it by next time,” Gus goes on, but Justin isn’t looking at him. “Wassa matter?”

“Nothing.” Justin sniffs and tries to pull himself out of the fucked-up reverie he’s lost in. He gives Gus a watery smile. “Hey, did you know that when I was about your age I used Molly’s baby monitor for a walky-talky?”

Gus’ eyebrows furrow. He’s not sure why he should care about that. “Really?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking that until Officer Thomas comes we could find your old baby monitor and use that as a walky-talky? It only works one way, but it would be cool.” He stops, anxiously gauging Gus’ reaction. “What do you think?”

“Sure! Where is it?”

Brian leans against the doorway of the kitchen and watches Gus excitedly take Justin’s hand as they go off in search of the baby monitor.


	7. Signs

Brian flips on the TV to the early-morning cartoons so he can distract Gus from making a mess on the kitchen floor with the paint set Justin got him for Christmas. Instead of Pokemon or whatever show it is that both Justin and Gus are so equally obsessed with, there’s news footage of the fires. Not their fires, though. The first ones, the ones that started up in Canada. 

Brian turns up the sound.

“There are four more reported fires in the Toronto area. Our News Ten affiliates up in Canada are telling us that firefighters have been dispatched to all of the fire sites but so far they have not managed to put –”

Brian irritatedly changes the channel.

“- Thousands across the globe are flocking to churches and synagogues –”

He changes the channel again.

“- From an aerial perspective, the fires seem to be honing beacons –”

“- The Bible talks about this as being the end of the world –”

“- Although they cannot be doused, the fires do not need to be contained –”

“- Fires, crop circles, statues of the Virgin Mary crying tears of blood, all fanciful delusions – if not delusions than illusions, illusions set to make us believe in a higher pow –”

Brian switches off the TV. He sits in relative silence until Justin comes into the front room with a glass of orange juice for him. Brian doesn’t care for orange juice but he takes it anyway. Their fingers touch.

“What were you watching?” Justin asks, flopping down beside Brian on the couch. He tucks a leg under himself and eyes Brian as he sips his orange juice.

“The news. Gus’ show isn’t on.”

Justin snorts. “Thank God I don’t have to sit through Jackie Chan Adventures yet again.”

“Yeah, well. They’re running bullshit about the fires on practically every station.”

Justin tufts fingers through his bangs and yawns. Brian envies his nonchalance, even if it is put on for Gus’ sake. The kid’s enthusiasm for the fires is freaking them out. He keeps opening up the windows so he can smell the smoke. Every five minutes he asks if Brian or Justin can take him in the truck to go back and see them. It’s fucking bizarre. “Shit. Must be serious.”

The two of them share a significant look. “Yeah,” Brian says.

The corners of Justin’s lips dip into a worried frown. The urge to run his thumb over the curves of Justin’s jaw, his cheek, the high point of his eyebrow, it’s overwhelming. 

So Brian does. Justin makes a low, relieved noise deep in his throat, leans into the touch. He opens his mouth to Brian’s thumb when it passes over his lips and gently swipes it with his tongue. Teasing. The whole thing should be stupid. It really should be, except for some reason it’s not. Brian smiles.

Gus toddles out into the living room. Brian can see a smudge of green paint on his gray t-shirt. He curses softly and drops his hand from Justin’s face.

“Dad?” 

“Sonnyboy?” He’s distracted by Justin moving over into the cove of Brian’s chest. Justin drops his head onto Brian’s shoulder. They’ve always been embarrassingly touchy-feely. Nothing new here.

“Can we go into town for lunch?”

“We just ate.” Brian’s barely incredulous. He strokes the softness of Justin’s inner wrist, moves up the sleeve of his sweatshirt and lightly tickles the pale skin hidden underneath with one finger. Justin gives a gasping laugh, moist breath seeping through Brian’s shirt and skittering across his neck. Brian shivers. 

“Not now. Lunchtime. I want to stop by the bookstore.”

Gus can’t read all that well. Justin can, so Gus will pick out books, Brian will buy them, and Justin will stay up past Gus’ bedtime reading them aloud. It’s a good system.

Brian contemplates. It would do Gus good to get away from the fire for an hour or two. “Fine. We’ll get pizza or something.” Gus beams at his father, and Brian quietly laughs at the excitement on his son’s face over a book and pizza. “The things I do for you, honestly…”

“I’m gonna get ready!” Gus proclaims, just about skipping from the room.

“Don’t hog all the hot water,” Brian shouts after him. There’s no response. Still smiling, he turns his head and leans down to kiss Justin.


	8. Signs

When they get to town, Gus asks for some money so he can buy a book, and Justin watches Brian bite the inside of his cheek in mock-contemplation. “I don’t know,” he says. “Last time I did that you went and bought two copies of the new Harry Potter book.” Even as he clucks his tongue at the notion, Brian is digging around in his snug jeans pocket for his Italian leather wallet, one of the last remnants of their old life.

“Please?” Gus puts a little pout into the plea, and all of the pretense falls from Brian’s face like a veil. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, fishing out a crisp twenty dollar bill. Gus snatches it from Brian’s long fingers and runs into the bookstore right in front of the three of them, scuffing his sneaker against the rough threshold. “Greedy little bastard,” Brian declares affectionately. 

“Your spitting image,” Justin agrees, sighing. “I should go in after him, shouldn’t I?”

Brian shakes his head. “You know he hates that. And he’d probably buy another Potter book just to spite us. No, just wait outside and watch him through the glass. I’m going to go get some milk and shit.”

Justin nods and squeezes Brian’s hand before the other man strolls away. “Be back in a few,” Brian shouts back over his shoulder.

“Okay.” 

He turns away from watching Brian’s lean form retreat and stares blankly into the bookstore window in front of him. Gus is excitedly talking to the store owners, his image blurred to Justin by the old glass. Justin smiles faintly when Gus knocks over a display of postcards on the counter. 

The door to the front is open, the tiny bells that are attached to the door handle to alert as to new customers are tinkling slightly in the wind. Beyond that slight noise, Justin can hear snatches of the conversation between Gus and the owners. 

“I think that’s cool,” Gus says, in a voice much too loud for everyday discussion. He and Brian both have the unfortunate habit of poor voice modulation when they’re excited. 

The old man – he can never remember his name – laughs at Gus’ enthusiasm, whatever it’s for, but that quickly turns into a hacking cough. “Don’t tell me you believe in that horseshit?”

Justin would be offended at the crude language if only he hadn’t said practically the same thing in the car on the way over. Not to mention that Gus is completely unphased by any and all expletives. 

“I believe in it,” Gus says, sounding a bit put off that his opinion is being questioned. 

The man laughs again and Justin sees him adjust the handkerchief stuffed into the pocket of his shirt. “Son, it’s a big pile of bunk-o, don’t you believe a word. It ain’t terrorists, God, the devil… none of that shit. Just the government looking to capitalize on mass panic. You know what that means? Capitalize?”

Gus thinks for a moment. “Is it when you make the first letter of a sentence bigger?”

The old man gives a shout of wheezing laughter. “Something like that.”

“So do you have one?”

“I surely do.” This time, the wheedling old woman who works alongside her husband answers Gus. “Not my fare, you know, but I kept it when it came in just in case…” Justin watches her distorted outline through the glass as she moves from behind the counter towards the row of dusty shelves nestled near the back of the small store. “It’s not exactly a picture-book, honey…” the woman warbles in a motherly tone. “You sure you want it?”

Gus nods emphatically. “Yep. I want the alien book.”

Justin chokes on horrified laughter and watches as the woman takes it over to Gus, who grabs it excitedly and flips through the pages, managing to immediately find some of the only illustrations in the three-hundred plus page manuscript. Just as he’s about to go in and tell Gus to get something else, a warm hand clamps down on Justin’s forearm.

“What’s he getting?” Brian murmurs softly into Justin’s ear, warm breath making him shiver.

“A fucking manifesto on extraterrestrials, apparently.”

Brian snorts, letting go of Justin’s arm. “What?”

“Just as I said. I think he heard on the news that the fires are being started by aliens or something.” Brian says nothing. In his peripheral vision, Justin can see him rolling his tongue around in his cheek like he does when he’s bothered by something. “What do you want to do?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He’ll throw a tantrum if we don’t let him get it. You can just… make stuff up when you’re reading it to him.”

Justin isn’t too fond of this idea, but they’ve done it before. He’s proven to be an excellent improvisational storyteller. Once he even managed to smooth over the potential disaster of Gus’ finding Brian’s copy of “The Joy of Gay Sex;” Gus demanded to know what the story was about, so Justin spun a fanciful tale of unicorns and elves and things that were really kid-friendly. However, Brian walked right as Justin was explaining that ‘gay’ meant that the animals were really happy, nearly blowing the cover by laughing so hard he all but fell over. He smiles at the memory as Brian slings an arm across his shoulders.

“Did you get the milk?” 

“Yeah, I got it. Some eggs too. Oh, and I picked up your asthma medication.”

“Thanks.” 

Justin leans his head against Brian’s chest, and Gus tottered out of the bookstore, deeply engrossed in his attempt to read.

“Ready to go home, Sonnyboy?” Brian asks, ruffling his son’s hair with a hand that looks impossibly large next to Gus’ petite features.

“Yeah,” he answers meekly, too awed by the sketchy drawing of a UFO to care about anything Brian might be saying.

“All right.”


	9. Signs

Brian has turned the radio off because the fires are being discussed on every station, and the car is humming along in relative silence. Justin is chewing two pieces of gum from his new pack of Trident, and Gus is tinkering with the baby monitor he brought with him, having just put in new batteries Brian got for it.

They are pulling into the long, winding back driveway to their house; the main road they usually take has been closed off because of the fires, which are still burning brightly. Brian has just rounded a sharp turn and can see their house when a spike of startling noise comes from the back seat.

Justin turns around, chewing. “What was that?”

Gus is frozen, his hand curled around the white plastic monitor. The red light that appears when the monitor is turned on glows brightly. 

Nothing more happens, and Brian parks. No one moves to get out of the car.

“What if my old baby monitor is picking up signs from extraterrestrials?” Gus asks suddenly, staring down at it in awe.

“Jesus, we’re all flipping out,” Justin mutters, turning back around and rubbing his temples. 

The monitor crackles again. Gus lets out a soft noise of surprise.

“It’s just static, Gus. Turn it up and see,” Brian says.

Gus turns the volume knob on the side with his small thumb. As soon as his thumb moves away, the monitor sings with activity. Beeps can be heard in the static, and the red light jumps in time with them. “It’s a code,” Gus breathes.

“Let me fucking see that,” Brian demands, and Gus passes it to him in the front seat. It continues to beep.

“It’s only noise.” Justin sounds reasonably convinced.

“Let’s get inside,” Brian murmurs, eyes trained on the baby monitor. Justin nods and unbuckles his seatbelt, but Gus’ insistent voice stops him.

“We might lose the signal!”

Brian’s breath hisses in an angry rush between his clenched teeth. “We are not just going to sit out in our own driveway like idiots.”

“Certifiable,” Justin snorts.

“I’m going in now,” Brian declares testily, reaching for the door handle.

“Don’t do it.”

Brian stubbornly opens the door and gets out of the car. Justin follows suit. Since Brian has the monitor, Gus has no choice but to follow. He walks up to his father, frowning, and opens his mouth to say something, but before he can the beeping stops completely.

“The hell?”

The static becomes louder, and vastly different sounds start to emit. A howling, eerie sound fills the air, and Gus looks stricken with a mixture of fear and excitement.

“Nobody move,” he orders.

No one was planning on it. Brian and Justin are frozen. Intently they listen as the sound shifts from the howling for a split second, morphing into something that sounds suspiciously like…

“Voices?” Justin asks, disbelieving.

“Did you hear them too?” Gus asks. “They weren’t English though. You heard them too, right?”

“I heard them,” Justin says tightly, exchanging an unreadable glance with Brian.

Brian is stock-still, the hand holding the baby monitor outstretched. “It’s probably picking up another monitor.”

“Let me see it,” Justin asks. Brian studies him for a moment before moving to pass it over the roof of the car. Justin reaches for it, and suddenly the noise explodes into further clarity, filled with unintelligible voices.

“Stop,” Gus cries out. 

Justin and Brian freeze. Their hands are both locked on the monitor, suspended over the roof of the car.

“It doesn’t sound like words.”

“This is why,” Brian pronounces slowly, “we don’t watch the news. People are mindfucked by the news. I’m letting go now.”

“Dad, no! Don’t do it.”

“You’ll lose the signal,” Justin chimes in, his voice shaking.

“Don’t let go.” Gus moves quickly, scrambling to the front of the car, where he climbs up the hood. He pauses at the windshield and tries to gauge how to get to the roof. His legs dangle over the edge and Brian winces when he almost slips, but he makes it to the top in one piece. “It gets clearer the higher you hold it,” he whispers, gently taking hold of the monitor.

“Be careful,” Brian warns.

“I’ve got him.” Justin moves to the front and crawls up the hood, finally crawling up next to Gus on the roof and supporting his tiny frame. 

Gus raises the monitor above his head. The noise coming from it intensifies. It sounds like a conversation, albeit one in another language or something communicated by machines. 

Brian curses and clamors to join them on top of the car roof. It jostles slightly, creaking under their collective weight, but nothing else happens. He slips an arm around Justin’s shoulder, scooting them both closer to Gus. “Here,” he says, trying to bring Justin around him, when the sound changes again.

“Stop!”

They stop. All static from the monitor is gone, and they are left with two very distinct metallic tones.

“There are two of them talking.”

The three of them sit there in silence and listen to the monitor. The tones are the same, but the pattern keeps changing, the pauses between them becoming shorter and shorter, the volume increasing. They turn clipped, almost angry.

There is a sudden, violent click, and then they’re gone.

“They hung up,” Gus whispers.


End file.
